


The Worst Thing You Ever Heard (I Love You)

by InMediasRes



Series: String of Fate [6]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst, Competency Kink, Everybody Lives, Idiots in Love, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, code word/phrase, eliot being stupid, quentin and his cards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 05:53:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28826262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InMediasRes/pseuds/InMediasRes
Summary: Eliot can't stop running."I love you."They're the worst words he's ever heard in his life.
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: String of Fate [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076294
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	The Worst Thing You Ever Heard (I Love You)

**Author's Note:**

> The last part was too happy, so of course this next part had to be angsty. Sorry not sorry?
> 
> Title taken from Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift
> 
> Enjoy :)

* * *

Everything had been going so well, which of course meant something would go horribly wrong very, very soon. It was a fact of Eliot’s life, one that he had accepted long ago.

And wrong it went indeed.

Eliot was bar tending, as per usual, at The Cottage’s weekly party. But a lot of his attention was focused on Quentin – he couldn’t take his eyes off him. Every time Quentin threw his head back to laugh, his eyes were drawn to the line of his throat, and he’d think about wanting to kiss down it, leaving marks in his tracks. And then _someone_ (Julia. He blames Julia) had dug out a deck of cards from some unknown source, and Quentin had taken it and started shuffling them expertly like he did it for a living, and started showing off his card tricks. His strong, sure hands skillfully moving the cards as he directed his growing audience’s attention, his dexterous fingers palming the deck, his sudden _confidence_ and – Well, Eliot’s pants got uncomfortable _real_ fast.

Then, to make his situation even worse, someone (again, he blames Julia. Or maybe Margo for this one) suggested they play poker and _Quentin clearing the floor with everyone at poker with that little smirk of his was fucking hot_ and Eliot… Eliot may have to reconsider his kinks when Quentin was involved, because _really_ – a confident, competent Quentin was going to be the death of him tonight. He had to force himself to pay attention to drink requests, or he would seriously accidentally make someone sick by mixing the wrong flavours together.

A little while later, he catches movement from the corner of his eye and he looks up from mixing his current drink to see Quentin disentangle himself from the floor and make his way out back. Eliot quickly mixes his signature drink for Quentin, the one he’s been making for him since his first Cottage party, and signals Josh to take over for a while. He carries both his and Quentin’s drink outside to the patio, drinking in the sight of Quentin staring up at the sky as he smokes.

“Wow, didn’t know you had it in you, Coldwater,” he calls out, half teasing but mostly impressed. Because Eliot _was_ impressed by Quentin’s handling of cards, and was still a little hot under the collar about it.

He smiles when Quentin throws a look over his shoulder at him before turning to lean back against the low wall with a shrug. Eliot slots into the space beside Quentin, giving him his drink. He watches, eyes a little dark, as Quentin takes a sip, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Peaches and plums again?”

“You like it, don’t you?” A brief flash of uncertainty makes itself known before Eliot tamps it down.

Immediately, Quentin replies with “Of course I do,” which makes Eliot relax his shoulders from the slight tension he hadn’t known he’d been holding them in.

“When I first met you, you seemed like a peach guy. And when I was making you that drink, at your first party, I thought ‘why not add in some plums?’ They’re two fruits you think won’t mix at all, but they do. They work.” Eliot explains, remembering when he first met Quentin the day of his entrance exam and thinking _I want to know what you like_ ; and he remembers every other time he’s spent with Quentin, every other thought of _I want to know you_ which eventually developed into thoughts of just _IwantyouIwantyouIwantyou_.

Quentin interrupts his reminiscing with “ _We_ work,” and Eliot turns to look at him, slightly startled, mostly perplexed. An eloquent “Huh?” slips from his lips before he can stop it.

“If I’m the peach guy, then you’re the plum. We work. Peaches and plums. That’s how we know. Who gets that kind of proof of concept?”

Eliot knows – he just _knows_ – that he’s giving Quentin a fond look, but he can’t help it. Quentin has this way of sometimes saying things that didn’t altogether make sense, while also simultaneously _making sense_. Eliot found it extremely endearing. He presses forward for a quick kiss before pulling away with a quiet laugh as he says, “Okay Q, think that’s your last drink of the night.”

But a small frown is forming on Quentin’s face as he looks at Eliot, drunkenly serious. “El, no –” He watches as Quentin puts down his drink on the wall for a moment to gather his thoughts, watches as he swallows nervously before starting again. “What I – I’m trying to say that I love you.”

Time seems to slow down before stopping altogether for Eliot, and in the resounding silence that follows Quentin’s confession, Eliot swears he can hear the beat of his heart trying to fill the chasm that he can feel suddenly stretching out between them. All Eliot can think is Quentin’s _I love you_ echoing around in his head as he thinks _fuckingshitshitshit_. He’s dimly aware of taking a couple of steps back, and he knows his face must be doing _something_ because he can see Quentin beginning to hunch his shoulders in that way he does when he wants to hide. _Fuck_. He releases a breath he had unconsciously been holding in, slow and deliberate.

“Q, come on,” he starts delicately, like he’s speaking to a spooked animal. He can’t quite meet Quentin’s eyes. “I love you, but you have to know that that’s not me.”

Eliot can’t say it. _He can’t_. Logically, he knows Quentin doesn’t know, and Eliot probably should have told him before now, but he couldn’t – _hadn’t been able to_ – find the right time to bring it up, and he hadn’t wanted it to taint what he had with Quentin. _Used to have_. Because there were still limits to how much Eliot was willing to talk about his brokenness, and this was apparently one of them. And he wishes – _so badly wishes_ – that he could give Quentin what he wants, what he’s looking for, but he can’t. Not right now. He’s not even sure if he could ever. And now it’s all falling apart, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

“Okay, I… Okay.” Quentin’s not looking at him, is looking down at the ground instead, and Eliot so badly wants to comfort him, wants to be able to be that person who can tell Quentin what he truly feels. “Sorry, I…” Quentin can’t even finish his thoughts as he reaches a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, catching his subtle movement of wiping at his eyes, and Eliot aches for him, for this man who is amazing in every way Eliot can think of and whom he is undeserving of. Because he knows he’s just broken this man’s heart, but he still can’t take that step forward.

And there’s only a few more seconds of silence Eliot can take before he feels his skin itching to get away, to escape, _to run_ and Eliot – Eliot listens, like so many times before, even while knowing that it will destroy him in the end. “Well, I… I’ll go, then. Let you… Let you finish your drink.”

He waits for a few seconds in case Quentin says anything more but he doesn’t, so Eliot walks away, keeping his steps slow and measured. He can’t stop his heart from beating wildly as it aches, but at least he can control how he moves his feet. He doesn’t look back once as he slides the patio door open and steps back inside, and he hates himself for it – allows the self-loathing to wash over him, consume him, because it’s familiar, safe to fall back on.

He ignores Josh waving at him from behind the bar, and immediately finds Margo chatting up some tall blonde guy in a nook. He cuts his way to her, indifferent to the people he bumps into, to their sounds of protest as he most certainly makes some of them spill their drinks.

“Margo. Margo, I need to talk to you.” He says, low in her ear, completely disregarding the irritated huff the blonde guy gives.

“Not now El, I’m trying to get _laid_ here. Go find Coldwater,” she hisses out from the corner of her mouth, eyes never leaving the other guy as she smiles sweetly at him.

“Bambi, _please_.” And he knows she must have heard the desperation in his voice, because she’s suddenly looking at him. He briefly wonders if he looks just as wrecked as he feels. He takes a breath, a quick in and out, before whispering a sentence he hasn’t used in a couple of years – “I can’t find the mayonnaise.”

Eliot hates mayonnaise.

He watches as Margo’s eyes widen, concern immediately filling her eyes as she takes his hand in hers and quickly makes her apologies to the blonde before dragging Eliot upstairs to her room. She shuts and locks the door before pulling him to her bed, pulling him down with her and arranging him so he’s half lying on his front snuggled up to her side, an arm thrown around her waist and his head pillowed on her chest, tucked under her chin. Eliot follows her directions easily, allowing her to move him how she wants before she pulls the duvet over them both. He breathes slowly, shallowly, inhaling the scent of her favourite perfume (Bambi truly was looking to pull tonight if she’s wearing her favourite perfume, and he’s sorry about having to interrupt her, but that feeling is muted compared to everything else tonight).

“El, talk to me. What’s going on?” Margo says gently, quietly, like he’s going to shatter if she talks louder than her ‘inside voice.’ And perhaps he will. He certainly feels like he’s going to.

Eliot doesn’t answer for a long while, his mind repeating Quentin’s confession on a loop, repeats the image of his face crumpling as Eliot breaks his heart in the light of something he’s too cowardly to face. His own heart beats, too loudly, to the tune of having lost something great due to his own predilection for self-sabotage. Outside, he can hear the dim noise of the party still going on downstairs, can still vaguely hear the music, and someone outside in the hall slamming a bedroom door. And he’s glad that Margo doesn’t push him, that she knows he’ll tell her in his own time when he’s ready.

“Margo. I really, really fucked up this time.” He finally whispers, small and broken, into the quiet of her room.

And he buries his face into her neck and shakes apart in her arms while she holds him tightly, like she can keep him in one piece if she held him tight enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I need a Margo in my life.
> 
> I also really, really liked the idea of Eliot & Margo having a code word/phrase for proper emergencies. A platonic safeword, if you will. Hope you did too :)
> 
> Also, I finally made a fandom side blog on tumblr, so come find me at inmediasres-1. Feel free to say hi!
> 
> I think the next part will have some revelations about Eliot that have only been alluded to in here, so everything will make sense (don't quote me on that). I've also decided that this piece will have a companion piece a little later down the line, so can't wait to get to that!
> 
> As ever, your love and support are much appreciated <3


End file.
